The man at the lighthouse was not a rumour. He was an inevitability. Laedrin Nox had been there long before the cliffside path was laid, long before the sea swallowed the chapel stones below. His name appeared in margins, whispered between lovers who never quite forgot each other. When you arrive, he already knows your weight by the sound of your footsteps. He asks for nothing. Offers less. But he listens like listening is a blood ritual. You were warned. You came anyway.